


Good To Be Lucky

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Bad Accents, Cats, Detroit Tigers, Ensemble Cast, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Matt Joyce finds a kitten tangled up in wires above the batting cages.</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good To Be Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> A couple days ago, [Matt Joyce rescued a kitten](http://www.mlive.com/tigers/index.ssf/2008/07/tigers_matt_joyce_rescues_kitt.html). [**americanleaguer**](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/) wrote (better, more coherent) Red Sox kittenfic, which you can find [here](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/58738.html). Joyce did not keep the kitten. The Tigers sent him to an animal rescue shelter. Also, he was just named the AL Player of the Week. The legend of the Rally Kitty lives on! 
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://littlestclouds.livejournal.com/1361729.html).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Matt Joyce finds a kitten tangled up in wires above the batting cages. Matt Joyce finds a kitten tangled up in wires above the batting cages and just goes right the fuck _off_. After he finds that tiny black kitten, it’s like he can’t make an out. That King Midas, everything he touches turns to gold. Well, Joyce, everything he hits goes out after that.

It started out like this: Joyce and Raburn dragged a bucket of baseballs and armfuls of bats to the indoor batting cages. It’d been raining all morning, blinding sheets of rain that were causing the gray tarp stretched over the field to pool up until the pitcher’s mound was its own little island.

Jones was using the tarp as a Slip ’n Slide, the cuffs of his pants rolled up to the ankles, feet bare. Just as Joyce and Raburn took that bucket of baseballs and the bats to the dugout, Jones screamed and went flying across the tarp on his belly, arms waving exuberantly in the air. Other guys stood at the lip of the infield, watching with amused looks on their faces, the plastic rain ponchos they were swaddled in making crinkling noises as they moved to applaud the performance. It kind of reminded Joyce of his grandma Patty’s place, with all the furniture covered in sheets of clear plastic.

Raburn had the bucket of balls and Joyce had the bats, and they started for the dugout.

“Jonesy sure knows how to have fun, don’t he?” Raburn drawled in that ridiculous Southern accent of his. Joyce was still confused as to how Raburn, another kid from Florida, just like Joyce, ended up sounding more suited for the Deep South than even Jones, who was from Georgia, or Thames, who came from Mississippi.

“Yeah. Too bad we’re not pitchers, else we could be out there with him,” Joyce said.

“He’ll probably get a talkin’ to from Leyland,” Raburn said, with a grin. “He’ll slink on outta Leyland’s office with his tail ’tween his legs.”

Joyce grunted lightly in agreement; Leyland didn’t really like them to horse around like that, considering how the season had gone thus far, what with all the injuries. Injuries healed, of course, Leyland said, but stupidity was terminal.

Raburn and Joyce got to the indoor batting cages and deposited their gear. Several of the players who were slated to appear in the starting lineup were already down there, taking their swings. Granderson was digging in against the bullpen coach, bat resting over his left shoulder. He had black shoepolish smeared down his cheeks like inky tears, thanks to the sudden downpour.

“Hey, you hear that?” Joyce raised his head and abandoned his bat. “Think I hear something.”

Raburn squinched his face up. “I don’t hear anything, man. What’re you talkin’ about?”

Joyce didn’t say anything. He got up and walked a few paces to the entrance, pulled on his batting gloves. Raburn and some of the guys huddled behind Joyce, curious. Even Granderson had stopped taking his swings and loped over.

A tiny black kitten was tangled in the wiring over the entrance, frail and wet, mewling pitifully.

One of the guys gasped. “It’s a black cat! Bad luck! We better get it outta here.”

Verlander raised his hands and backed away hastily. “I can’t touch that thing. I got allergies.”

The guys just nodded and made skeptical mmhmm-ing noises, but let Verlander off the hook. Joyce pulled a stool over and parted the twisting wires.

“Careful there, buddy.” A black paw swiped angrily through the air and Joyce ducked his head, wrapping his hands around the kitten’s tiny body. The little guy was clearly pissed about the unfolding of events.

“Careful, Matty, he’ll mess up your pretty face.” Raburn grinned.

“Shut up.” Joyce worked the kitten free of the wires and cradled him against his chest, carefully stepping down from the stool.

“What are you gonna do with him, Matty?” somebody called out.

“The poor little guy is shivering. I’m gonna find a warm towel and some milk or something,” he said, heading for the clubhouse. Some of the guys followed, others returned to the batting cages.

Joyce made a nest out of fresh-from-the-dryer towels and cleared out a spot for the kitten in his locker. Somebody found some milk and a tin of tuna amidst the pregame buffet spread and brought it over. Pudge cooed over the kitten, chucking it under its chin with his finger, while a couple of the guys fought over who got to feed it.

“What are ya gonna name it?” Raburn asked.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m gonna keep it,” Joyce said, scritching the kitten between its ears. The kitten raised its face against the palm of Joyce’s hand, and let out a happy, satisfied purr. “I don’t have time to care for a kitten,” he said to the little guy, almost apologetically.

“I t’ink you should keep ’im. ’e can be the official Rally Kitty,” Pudge said, almost nose to nose with the kitten. Pudge rubbed his fingers under the kitten’s chin and he soaked up the attention greedily. It almost looked like he had a smile on his face.

Joyce sighed, holding the tin of tuna in his hand. “I don’t even have my own place. It’d be unfair to keep him cooped up in some crappy hotel. Hell, I don’t even think my hotel allows children, let alone kittens.”

“Well, if _you_ don’ wan’ ’im, _I’ll_ take ’im,” Pudge said, cooing some more at the kitten.

The kitten rubbed his head against Joyce’s thigh as if in response.

Pudge grinned. “T’ink ’e likes _you_ , Matty.”

Joyce sighed again and looked down at the friendly kitten. He reached down and rubbed his fingertips between the kitten’s ears. “I think I’ll call you Lucky,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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